Posts Tagged With: DMV

My 1000th Blog! – The Adventures of My Friends

It was sultry in Macon, Georgia. Which is kinda irrelevant because our story takes place in Poway. I hope mentioning their town squares things with the Macon city council.

Anyway, ruggedly handsome Matt Pallamary looked down the smoking barrel of his Saturday Night Special. He’d been the head weatherman for Channel 3, The Voice of Greater Poway, for thirteen years. He hadn’t learned a darn thing about meteorology, climatology, chinoiserie, or whatever. It really didn’t matter, every day in Poway since the flood of Genesis had been cloud free. Poway had been, and still is, light during the day and dark at night.

Oh dear, I’ve totally forgotten about the sultry Susan Conner who lay dead on the floor with a bullet hole the size of Rhode Island in her head. Matt surveyed her one more time, no doubt Poway’s finest would soon show. After all, Winchell’s DoughnutsTM always had Channel 3 on.

“Nice gams,” said Matt. “Too bad her cats kept predicting a major flood. Destroyed all credibility for the program.” Ms. Conner didn’t mind Matt’s nor the author’s intrusions and dilly dallying. She was dead and had learned patience.

Suddenly, the scene was cut short as Sergeant Mavvy Vasquez and rookie Mary Barker burst in. Sgt. Vasquez drew her VerasceTM .45 silencer and plugged Matt in the throat. Matt slumped to the floor. Even in death he wasn’t in a hurry. His last words were, “Ow! I mean ow!”

Barker asked, “Land of Goshen! Why’d ya kill him? He was ruggedly handsome, ya know.”

Vasquez sneered. “Rookie, rookie, rookie. Have you learned nothing from me? Less paper work from killing a suspect than bringing him. And besides, Real Economists of Los Angeles comes on just after my shift is over. Not missing that for anything.

“Shouldn’t Real Economists of Los Angeles be in quotes and not in italics,” said Barker, whose hearing was very good.

“Pow! Pow!” said Vasquez as she pointed her finger. Finger guns have never worked, not even for the imaginative kid. It didn’t work now. So she used her silencer. Down went the rookie. The sergeant knew she was wrong to murder Barker and also quite possibly wrong about italicizing the TV show as well. However, she was doomed if this charge was true. Sheriff Leona Pence was strict about grammar, particularly after a murder of a policewoman.

Sheriff Pence was herself a murderer. Normally, that would be a resume stain for anyone seeking a career in law enforcement. However, Ms. Pence successfully ran for sheriff, sheriff spelled correctly, on the slogan, or with the slogan as the case may be, of, “It takes a murderer to catch a murderer.”

Murder made Sergeant Vasquez hungry. Murder always does that. You’d know that if you murdered . . . Anyway, so hungry, so hungry for a maple doughnut that she cut in line of Shirley Wetzel who was kindness itself.

Except when it came to her doughnuts. No one got between her and a doughnut. A doughnutless Wetzel was a hangry Wetzel. (Notice, I’m using people last names mostly. It’s because I’m respectful. Manners matter even in murder.)

Anyway, still at the doughnut shop, Wetzel yelled, “Hey, no cutting in line.”

“Oh go eat lutefisk,” replied the law.

A severely sugar deficient Wetzel pulled her trusty Jay Martin knife and severed Sergeant Vasquez’s jugular. Blood splashed Wetzel’s white blouse. “My blouse is ruined! Just ruined!”

“No, it isn’t” said Shelley Caldwell, who normally took the doughnut orders, but hadn’t done so recently because of all the murders and stuff, “just smear blood over yourself. You’ll just be wearing a shiny red blouse, that’s all.”

Wetzel sniffled. “I suppose so.”

“And not only that,” said Caldwell, “the police will be looking for a murderer with blood stains on her. They won’t be able to see individual spots in a completely stained blouse.”

Wetzel brightened. Smiled even. “Thank you. You’ve been most helpful to a murderous stranger.”

Caldwell waved her hand. “It’s nothing, honey. My grandmother told me to be useful as well as ornamental.”

Wetzel stepped outside, walked to intersection and pressed the button. When the light at the other side of the street flashed “walk,” she walked put not before looking to the left for aholes turning right into the crosswalk. If only she’d had looked up as well. But no she didn’t. A comet hit her and carried her off into space. Right now, Wetzel is speeding out on an orbit that will take her out past Pluto, still a planet in my book, and into the Oort cloud. Wetzel’s comet is scheduled to return in the year 2375.

Anyway, the comet’s commotion kinda grabbed everyone’s attention, so no one noticed when Steve Barber, a Chihuahua, robbed the nearby First Really First National Bank. I tell you, no one ever suspects Chihuahua of any crime at all. It’s truly an invitation to canine robbery, which Barber had just done. And with an AKC-47. The C stands for Chihuahua sized. It’d be unrealistic to have a tiny dog, toting around a real assault rifle, for goodness sake.

Unfortunately for Barber, a Chihuahua’s legs are tiny, making a quick getaway impossible. Too bad he’d never gotten a license. He could have booked it out of there in a Smart Car.TM

Anyway, Sergeant Bob Brouilette used the author intrusion and the doggie’s slowness to catch the canine criminal. “Oh ho,” said Brouilette, “I’ve got you know.”

“‘Now’ is spelled, ‘now,’ not ‘know,’ copper,” woofed Barber.

“It’s not my fault, ‘know’ was a typo,” said Brouilette. “And, it’s a homonym.”

“No, it isnt,” woofed the dog. “and you have to let me go.”

“You used a gun in a robbery,” said the sergeant.

“It’s my Second Amendment right to bear arms,” woofed Barber.

“That only applies to people,” said Brouilette.

An interesting Supreme Court ruling loomed. But then fifty-two cats pounced on Barber, grabbed him by their paws and kicked him to death with their hind legs. “Eat fur balls, Chihuahuas,” purred the kittenish Susan Conner who wasn’t as dead as she seemed in paragraph two.  She probably takes lots of vitamins, “Time to make America feline again,” said Conner.

And now we’ll pause a moment while I correct a comma into a period. There. Done.

“We don’t murder with cats in Poway,” said the bystander Paul Higgins who had a body any zombie would kill for, four limbs and everything. And at that, Higgins put a whistle to his lips and blew.

Conner sneered. “Like any cats going to follow that.”

“I know,” said Higgins, smarter than a herd of amoebas. “But this whistle will attract the attention of the police.”

“Oh drat,” said Conner, “I didn’t figure on that.”

“Into the library,” said the dapper Woodrow Wilkins, who despite all wearing spiffy clothes, loved cats to the extent that he never minded cat fur all over his ensembles. Well, he really preferred cat fur that coordinated nicely with his suits. But the point has been made, he loved cats and their cat masters.

Conner led her herd to the library. Before entering, she turned back to glimpse at her knight in shining armor. “Thank you,” said. “I will always remember your kindness.”

The ever modest Wilkins tipped his hat. “It’s nothing.” He then vanished into obscurity, which was quite a good thing given the fatality rate of this Powegian day.

Conner and her cute as buttons cats stampeded into the library.

“Whoa!” yelled the head librarian, Shellie Fiore, in her sternest whisper. “This is a library, not a barn. We don’t stampede here.”

Properly embarrassed the cats said down and began licking themselves. Conner, too.

Fiore took this respite in action to drink in the attention of hundreds of male admirers. Ravishingly beautiful, if she had been alive in the time of Homer, she’d have been the stunning knockout that launched a thousand ships against Troy.

Fiore knew it too. Indeed, she’d walk the sidewalk in front of the library every now and again. Male drivers would turn their heads to drink her in. For too long. Too often. Eyes off the road, driver after driver would crash into car after car. Often with fatal results. The she devil reveled in her fatal attractiveness.

But not in the library, where she never killed anyone. But she’d give you such a look if you tried to argue your way out of a fine.

Poway’s library collected a lot of late-book fines and talking-ones as well. To such an extent, in fact, that the place was lit not with over head lighting, but with ornate Italian candlesticks.

The reference librarian, Chrissie Ann, AKA the Enforcer, gripped one such candlestick. She lovingly referred to it as Rita Tobey Cloud. Ann was also snarling. A patron, Susan Clark Voorhis, wanted to use the computer. It was her time. Had been for ten minutes. She’d demurely asked the selfish oaf if she’d might sit down instead. The miscreant, Rodney Dodig, didn’t even look up. He really was a bad egg.

So Voorhis, walked timidly toward Ann and told her tale of woe. “Is that so? Well not, in my domain.” Ann the Enforcer glanced toward Conner and her cats, you could never tell what they might do. But they were sleeping. She was free to administer justice.

In three steps Ann bounded over to where Dodig surfed the net for intense articles on cross-grape pollination in the Andes. Naturally, he didn’t want to be disturbed by the outside world. So when Ann tapped him on the shoulder, saying, “Now, see here!” he waxed belligerent. His face took on the anger of someone expecting a cream-filled chocolate egg only to find that he’d bitten into a chocolate-covered Brussels sprout.

“Take off, reference Nazi.” And worse, he’d yelled this. In a library. To a reference librarian. To a Powegian reference librarian.

Smack, smack, Ann’s candlestick, Cloud, came down on his head. Smack, smack, Ann’s silver candlestick made sure he was dead. Voorhis thought briefly turning Ann into the law, but she really did need to get on the computer. She really needed to complete her research. Her term paper was due tomorrow and her laptop wasn’t doing anything. If only she’d listened to her friends and not installed Internet Explorer. She merely mouthed thanks to Ann and sat down at her terminal.

The blissful silence of the library shattered when Conner spontaneously busted. So Conner didn’t remember Wilkins’ kindness well long after all, did she?

Anyway, Ann the Enforcer strode toward the cats. “Now see here!” she yelled. “We do not combust in this library.” Pointing her finger to the door she said, “Scat, shoo, now!”

The cats ignored her, so Ann brought a big bucket, some soap, and some water. It’s amazing how often those things are useful to a reference librarian. “Now cats, who want’s a bath!”

None of them did. They stampeded the exit and collided with great momentum into the Great Steve Kramer’s stilts. Kramer’s stilts were thirty-feet long. Kramer was walking with them. Down went Kramer. Down went Kramer’s skull. Not the way Kramer had wanted to die, he’d always fancied he’d get shot down in a gunfight on Front Street in Dodge City against the somehow revived Matt Dillon. Before that he wanted to parlay his earnings from exotic stilt walking at the Rhino’s Horn club into graduating with a major in Alligator Husbandry at Tampa A&M. Bummer, Kramer.

But death isn’t always bad. No! For Kramer’s hat fell off when he fell. Underneath it had been a lottery ticket. The ticket fluttered to the ground. It’s movement caught the eye of Julie Fletcher who had come to see the sights of Poway, tourist destination of the West. Fletcher had always been raised to make the best of any situation, including deaths of alligator-husbandry wishing, thirty-foot stilt walking entertainers.

So Fletcher pounced on the lottery ticket. As incredibly contrived fiction would have it, the ticket won her eighty millions dollars. She immediately bough a BushnellTM 303 sonic obliterator. She bought a spanking new Rolls RoyceTM drove back to her home town and murdered everyone who had been mean to her. I’m hoping the elimination of all the negativity in her life, will give her a fresh start. I mean, after all, she should be able to bribe any number of juries. Any way, good luck, Fletcher.

Not all onlookers were made happy by Kramer’s death. Not Ted Mouser. The ever dashing hit man had just bumped off Santa Claus. Old Saint Nick had banged Mouser’s roof one too many times. The neighboring kids blamed him a lot for ruining Christmas. They even called him, “meanie.” That hurt. Only one thing could cheer Mouser up, stilt walking. Powegian stilt walking. And now Poway’s very best stilt walker was gone. And soon would be Mouser as well.

Click, click. Click, click. The sounds of the steel nails on Mrs. Claus’ tall boots. She removed her sunglasses and gazed at Mouser. “So you killed my husband.”

“Which one?”

“Santa Claus, he was a good man. He stayed at home with me, every night but one. And man, I love a guy with a belly and a beard.”

Mouser raised his left eyebrow. “Mrs. Claus. Is it that so? I seem to remember you having a different name. A very different name.”

Mrs. Claus spat at the ground. “That’s right, I was Bettie Turner, fan dancer at the Naked Armadillo down San Anton way. The best fan dancer you ever saw. And don’t you forget it.”

Mouser wouldn’t forget Turner, wouldn’t raise his right eyebrow for her either. Everything in moderation was his motto. Mrs. Old Saint Nick, reached inside her trench coat and withdrew a Kit KatTM bar.

Mouser laughed. “Give me a break.”

But Turner wouldn’t. She reached again inside her trench coat and came out with a Sunday Morning Special and put a bullet neatly between Mouser’s eyes. She looked at her smoking gun. “‘Bout time all that target practice with the elves paid off.”

Then Kathryn Minicozzi killed Turner with a slingshot. As always, competition to be Santa’s wife was fierce. “Finally, I’ll be Mrs. Chubby.” A limo pulled up. Vivian Pattee jumped out and ran toward Turner. The chauffeur knew that murderers always appreciated a quick getaway. Big tippers too. “Where to?”

“To the North Pole,” said Minicozzi. “I’m going to get married.”

“Very good, madam.” It was at times like this that the driver was glad she’d invested in a hover-limo.”

Stefanie Kneer cursed her luck. She didn’t have a limo. Didn’t even have a car. Not even a Honda FitTM. You’d think that someone blessed with the looks of a film goddess could have gotten any man to do anything she wanted. And they did. Hundreds of wealthy hunks threw entire fortunes at her. Too bad she always lost the money in rigged tic-tac-toe matches. Would she ever learn?

No. She’s going down. Wrapped up in her problems, she stepped out into the street without looking even one way. Hopping mad a few seconds earlier, she was soon beside herself when she stepped on a land mine and exploded into bits. Indeed, a fortuitously stiff wind blew Kneer chunks onto the clothes of the passersby. Poway’s dry cleaning stores would do a booming business.

Crossing guard Kate Domsic, vigilant and dedicated as Barney Fife had even been, watched with grim satisfaction. “We enforce the law here. Damned scoff laws.” Domsic flicked off a bit of Kneer from her shoulder.

Fashion model Christee Gabour Atwood shrieked. That Kneer chunk had landed on her ChanelTM black dress. And there were long lines outside all the cleaners. She had to get home fast. Her car, get to her car. But no she had forgotten where she parked it.

Then along came Marilynne Smith pogoing down the sidewalk. Atwood’s arm shot out, clotheslining Smith. Atwood addressed the sprawling pogoer, “Sorry, but my need is greater.” Atwood pogoed with the alacrity that comes with being fashion model rushing to her place on the runway.

Smith sat up and surveyed her scrapes. “That just tears it. My man is buying me a car.” But it was a good thing she lost her pogo stick, for a UFO locked onto the nearest pogoer, Atwood. The tractor beam pulled the fashion model up to the mother ship. If only the aliens had remember to leave a door open for her.

It’s difficult to say whether the collision with the spacecraft did Atwood in or was it the plummeting fall that did her in. It is clear, however, that her landing on Jack Brantley Lightfoot killed him. Which was kind of good thing as was on his way to have his license renewed and he did so hate waiting in line at the DMV.

Cynthia Drew, however, was waiting at the DMV. Was she even a bit closer to the front of the line? No, the Earth’s plates had shifted twelve times since she got in line. Just then the woman in front of her, Liz Husebye Hartman, collapsed, dying from dehydration and malnutrition. This is why the DMV plasters posters inside its buildings signs that read, “Did you remember to bring food and water?” Of course, the waiting people never did bring food and water. They also never wanted to go home for those items because that would mean losing their place in line. So hundreds of people die each day at their DMVs from starvation and thirstation.

But as always, there was a silver lining to this. Hartman’s demise meant Drew could move up one place in the line. Synapses fired in Drew’s brain. If she killed all the people in front of her, she could go right to the front and get that form 4F3B. Fortunately, she had an AK-47 slung across her back. Sure, Drew had meant to use the gun on terrorists and intruders to her home, but her keen mind adapted to this situation. “Don’t whine, do,” her parents had always said. So Drew gunned down the people in the line and strode ahead, smiling all the way.

“Form 4F3B, please,” said Drew.

“Sorry,” said Christine Olewiler, “this is the line for form 4F3C. You want the line to the left.”

But the line to the left stretched so far that the curvature of the Earth prevented Drew from seeing the end. Her heart soared like a rock. “I’m going to kill myself.”

Olewiler sneezed. She coughed hard enough to separate her ribs. Snot flowed freely down her otherwise alabaster cheeks. “Please, kill me first. I’m ever so sick.”

Drew, ever the good Samaritan, emptied her assault rifle into the DMV clerk’s head. Drew could have complained that she now had no bullets to use on herself. Instead she displayed the can-do spirit that made America great and simply pulled her head off.

Meanwhile, it was eventful day on Happy Valley Street. D Lynn Frazier, had just killed her neighbor and bridge partner, Mandy Ward, by shoving sixty pounds of guacamole down the throat. And just for a flourish, Frazier stabbed Ward.

Roxe Anne Peacock, of the other bridge pair, took offense. It was her guacamole that Frazier had used. Her prize-winning guacamole! Frazier could kill her guests all she wanted, sure, Peacock had a live and let live attitude, but messing around with her guacamole brought instant death. Well not instant, Frazier did resist getting hit over the head with a frozen corned-beef brisket. Then it took a while for the petite Peacock to manhandle Frazier into the meat locker. And wouldn’t you know it, it took all night for Frazier to freeze properly.

Naturally enough Frazier had trouble getting up the next morning. Not so with Peacock. She took the stiff out of the locker and started to take it out to the curb for trash pickup. But as she did, she spied the washing machine. Horrors! She had wet clothes in there from the previous night. They would get stinking and moldy if not dried right away. She stood up Frazier a few feet away and started transferring clothes to the dryer. Unfortunately, in doing so, she bumped into Frazier. Down went the rock-hard frozen Frazier on Peacock’s neck, snapping it two. So, sad to say, the clothes got moldy and icky.

Two days later, Cheryl Christensen of the Neighborhood Mold Watch Committee knocked on Peacock’s door. Nothing. She came back the next day. Knocked. Again. Nothing. Christensen contemplated leaving another blistering anti-mold note before bursting into laughter. The mold maker would pay. Peacock would be tickled until she cried uncle.

Christensen picked the front door’s lock and headed to the reeking smell in the laundry room. She flexed her fingers. Justice would be served. But wahdu, Peacock was dead. Frazier was dead. The neighborhood would be blame her. Thinking quickly, Christensen stuffed each body into a sock. Into the dryer the dead ones went. Christensen closed the dryer door and set the buttons. Sure enough, Peacock and Frazier, being in orphan socks, disappeared.

Alex Butcher of the FBI came by to investigate, but her investigation proved no more fruitful than did any of the Bureau’s dead-bodies-stuffed-inside-orphan-socks investigation.

A week later, Linda Fierstein came back from a vacation at the sun-soaked beaches of Tahiti. She asked her neighbor, “Did anything happen while I was away?”

“Nothing to speak of,” said Kathy Carroll.

Chef Paul

My cookbook, Following Good Food Around the World, with 180 wonderful recipes is available on amazon.com. My newest novel, Do Lutheran Hunks Eat Mushrooms, a hilarious apocalyptic thriller, is also available on amazon.com

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Categories: humor, murder | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

Qurotob (Bread salad from Tajikistan)

Tajik Entree

QUROTOB
(Bread Salad)

INGREDIENTS – SALADquorotub

2 pita loaves
1½ tablespoons olive oil (1½ more tablespoons later)
1 onion
2 green onions
1½ tablespoons olive oil
2 cups Greek yogurt
½ cup hot water
1 teaspoon lemon juice
½ teaspoon coriander
1 teaspoon dill
1 teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon sugar
½ cucumber
4 tomatoes
1 tablespoon fresh cilantro
1 tablespoon fresh parsley
8 non breads (See above recipe) or other flatbreads such as fatir or pita

SPECIAL UTENSILS

cookie sheet
large serving plate

Serves 8. Takes 40 minutes.

PREPARATION

Preheat oven to 350 degrees, Brush pita loaves with 1½ tablespoons olive oil. Break loaves into small bits. Place pita bits on cookie sheet. Bake at 350 degrees for 15-to-20 minutes or until pita bits turn golden brown.

While pita bits bake, dice onion and green onions. Add 1½ tablespoons olive oil, onion, and green onion to pan. Sauté at medium high heat for 5 minutes or until onion and green onion soften. Add Greek yogurt, hot water, lemon juice, coriander, dill, salt, and sugar to large mixing bowl. Whisk until well blended. Seed cucumber. Dice cucumber, tomatoes, cilantro, and parsley.

Add toasted pita bits to large serving plate. Pour yogurt mixture over pita bits. Top with sautéd onion and green onion, cucumber, and tomato. Garnish with cilantro and parsley. Guests use their non bread to scoop up the yogurty, veggie, bread salad from the communal serving plate.

TIDBITS

1) How did this wonderful entree come about? Here is the time line.

2) 4,500 million years ago (mya): First single-celled organisms come into existence. So does the first spam e-mail involving Nigerian dictators and their money.

3) 4,000 mya: A woman named Sally shows up at the DMV without an appointment.

4) 3,500 mya: Earliest oxygen molecule. It’s name was Bob. There were no last names that long ago.

5) 2,500 mya: Oxygen crisis. Oxygen has mid-life jitters.

6) 1,200 mya: Earliest sexual reproduction. Single-cell dating sites occur. First pickup lines invented.

7) 800 mya: Multi-cellular organisms hit the world scene. Sally’s still in line.

8) 440 mya: 86% of all species are exterminated. First known appearance of DaleksTM.

9) 350 mya: Sharks with rows of nasty, pointy teeth show up. Dun-dun, dun-dun.

10) 275 mya: Theraspid synaspids branch off from pelycosaur synapsids; no idea what this means.

11) 225 mya: The world’s first dinosaurs come from out of nowhere. They aren’t met with thunderous applause;. no life forms have hands.

12) 220 mya: Gymosperm forests dominate land life. This is not as dirty as it sounds.

13) 219 mya: It takes life 1 millions years to spot the first typo. The correct spelling is gymnosperm.

14) 160 mya: Mammals show up. Life is great until …

15) 155 mya: Mosquitoes do also.

16) 65 mya: Dinosaurs get wiped out by gigantic meteor. Mammals begin their ascent to global supremacy. Did mammals engineer this event? Who knows? They leave no written record.

17) 63 mya: Creodonts, not to be confused with orthodontists, spontaneously appear.

18) 52 mya: First bats show up.

19) 51 mya: First balls appear.

20) 50 mya: Baseball becomes popular when organisms finally agree on rules.

21) 250 thousand years ago: Humans pop up in Eastern Africa.

22) 300 years ago. Human chefs create qurotob, bread salad. Sally gets her license. Life is good.

Chef Paul

cookbookhunks

My next cookbook,  Around the World With Good Food will be available soon. My newest novel, Do Lutheran Hunks Eat Mushrooms, is available  on amazon.com

 

 

Categories: cuisine, history, international | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Moravian Christmas Cookies

Czech Dessert

MORAVIAN CHRISTMAS COOKIES

INGREDIENTSMoravianCookies-

1 teaspoon baking soda
1½ tablespoons warm water
1 cup brown sugar
1¼ cups molasses
½ cup shortening or lard
4 cups flour
1 teaspoon cinnamon
¾ teaspoon ground cloves
¼ teaspoon ginger
¼ teaspoon mace
½ teaspoon nutmeg

2 tablespoons flour
no-stick spray

SPECIAL UTENSILS

cookie cutter
4 or so cookie sheets (You might have to bake in batches.)

Makes 36 cookies. Takes 2 hours 40 minutes.

PREPARATION

Add baking soda and warm water to pot. Stir with fork until baking soda dissolves. Add brown sugar, molasses, and shortening. Cook at low-medium heat until all is melted. Stir frequently. Remove from heat..

Add baking soda/brown sugar/molasses mixture to large mixing bowl. Add 1 cup of flour. Knead by hand. Repeat until all 4 cups of flour have been added. Add cinnamon, ground cloves, ginger, mace, and nutmeg. Knead once until dough is stiff and smooth. Cover and place in cool spot for 1½ hours.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Use up to 2 tablespoons flour to dust flat surface. Roll dough out until it is ⅛” thick. Cut dough with cookie cutter or with knife. Spray cookie sheet with no-stick spray. Bake at 350 degrees for 5-to-10 minutes or until cookies harden around the edges or a toothpick inserted into the middle comes out clean. Let sit for 10 minutes.

TIDBITS

1) Molasses flows slowly. Hence the saying, “As slow as molasses.”

2) Slowness is relative of course. Plate tectonics, the shifting of the Earth’s plates, is even slower than molasses. Much slower. Yet no one ever says, “As slow as plate tectonics.”

3) Even so, plate tectonics is much faster than the lines at the Department of Motor Vehicles.

4) This title usually gets shortened to DMV. The department even has a long name.

5) Many people assume that the glacial pace at the DMV is a result of ever increasing swarms of people wanting to get driving permits, driver’s licenses, and to change their names.

6) Name changing arises when recently married women take their husband’s last name.

7) People who have committed murders often change their last name to avoid detection by the police.

8) Black widows, women who marry men and murder them shortly afterward for their money, are especially avid name changers.

9) Law enforcement knows this. Which is why the DMV includes in the section under name changes the following question, “Do you marry and murder for money?”

10) This tactic worked for a while. Then would be money murderers realized they could avoid detection by simply answering, “No.”

11) So these black widows and other killers compound their crime of murder with the one of lying.

12) Soon they feel nothing about jaywalking or looking up the answers at the back of a book of crossword puzzles.

13) The downward moral spiral continues. Pretty soon the tortured soul looks at the hamburger on his plate, his second one when another guest hasn’t even had her first. He wonders how such an off-the-cuff action as murder could have such an impact on his life.

14) This is a critical moment in the murderer’s life. Confess, oh my goodness, confess. Confess and break the downward ethical spiral. Confess that you took that second hamburger. Offer it back to that hamburgerless sweetheart looking down at her empty plate.

15) Your act of self abnegation will bring a smile to her face. The fact of getting of a yummy burger will swamp her body with joy-filling endorphins. She’ll regard you as a knight in shining armor.

16) Soon the two of you will be chatting up a storm and before you know it, you are engaged to be married.

17) Now is the time when you must hold firm. Do not kill her for her money. This is your soul mate. Murder someone else. Do the murder with you new spouse. The couple that slays together, stays together.

– Chef Paul

LutheranCookbook

My cookbook, Eat Me: 169 Fun Recipes From All Over the World,  and my newest novel, Do Lutheran Hunks Eat Mushrooms, are available in paperback or Kindle on amazon.com

The cookbook is also available as an e-book on Nook

or on my website-where you can get a signed copy at: www.lordsoffun.com

Categories: cuisine, humor, international | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

My Not-To-Do List – Part 3

NotToDo1

It’s an awesome responsibility with millions of people looking to me for guidance on what no to do today, so I approached today’s list with great thought. So, here are the things I won’t be doing.

1) I will not take my paints and easel to the DMV to paint still-life scenes.

2) I will not move to Antarctica. It’s winter down there.

3) I will not get into any political discussion with a mime. That sort of thing always gets out of hand.

4) I will not check cans at the supermarket for “high fructose corn syrup.” I need a break. I’ll stay away from food buying today.

5) Oh gosh, see what 4) can do. I’m craving a TwinkieTM.

6) I will not repost anything that says, “Repost this.”

7) I will not buy a Twinkie.

9) I will not ask chickens, “Why did you cross the road?”

10) I will put aside my work on a Mobius-strip roller coaster.

11) I will not try to make sense of Middle-Eastern politics.

12) I will not read any of the on-line agreements that I must check before buying anything.

13 I will not buy a Twinkie.

– Paul R. De Lancey, great no-doerCoverFrontFinal

Check out my latest novel, the hilarious apocalyptic thriller, Do Lutheran Hunks Eat Mushrooms? It’s published by HumorOutcasts and is available in paperpack or Kindle on amazon.com.

 

 

Categories: humor | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

How I Will Save The World From Bigass Comets And War

Trampoline

If you’re like me, the thought of three-mile-wide comet striking the Earth terrifies you. I mean the last time we got hit by one, woowee, things were bad! We’re talking mass extinction with exclamation points everywhere!!!! And if you’re thinking I’m making all this up, go ask a dinosaur how things went down. Couldn’t find a dinosaur, could you? See? I was right.

Oh sure, there are some good things that would come with the obliteration of humanity. Some that occur to me: are eating English toffee ice cream and not caring a bit about the calories, no waiting in line at the DMV, no more filing of estimated taxes, never ever hearing again the theme song to Barney the Dinosaur, no more election ads, AND no more spring cleaning.

But no matter how much you try to put a happy face on this, mass extinctions are a bummer. You’ll miss things like: hot-and-heavy sex, breathing, shredded beef tacos in a crispy shell, root beer, and crossword puzzles*

So overall, I think it’s best if we deal with the incoming comets that everyone talks about. Here is my plan. It is devastating in its utter simplicity.

Have the comets bounce back into space off a three-mile wide trampoline.  Tada! The world is saved.

Of course, we’ll need helicopters to fly the trampoline to wherever it will be needed, but that should be easy to arrange. And in the meantime, it’ll  be a fantastic release for millions of energetic kids the world over who love to bounce, bounce, bounce. Face it, most people start wars because they’ve spent too much time with shrieking, whining, bored kids and just plain flipped out.

So, there you go, I’m saving the world at least two times. You’re welcome. I expect to Nobel Prize any moment now.

* = If you can find someone who lets you do crossword puzzles during hot and heavy sex, propose marriage immediately.

– Paul R. De Lancey, Ph.D. and future Nobel Prize winnerCoverFrontFinal

Check out my latest novel, the hilarious apocalyptic thriller, Do Lutheran Hunks Eat Mushrooms? It’s published by HumorOutcasts and is available in paperpack or Kindle on amazon.com.

 

 

 

 

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Cuban Stuffed Peppers From Forthcoming Cookbook

Cuban Entree

CUBAN STUFFED PEPPERS

INGREDIENTS

4 garlic cloves
1/3 medium onion
1 cup cooked rice
2 cups water

1/2 pound ground beef
1/2 pound ground turkey
2 teaspoons olive oil

1 14.5 ounce can diced tomatoes
1 7 ounce can diced green chiles
1/4 cup chicken broth
3 tablespoons tomato sauce
2 tablespoons oregano
1 teaspoon sea salt
1/2 teaspoon coriander
1/2 teaspoon pepper

2 green bell peppers (3 total green peppers, 2 here and 1 below)
2 yellow bell pepper
2 red bell pepper (3 total green peppers, 1 here and 2 above)

1 green bell pepper

GUEST APPLIANCE APPEARANCES

microwave
microwavable dishes
sonic obliterator

PREPARATION

Mince onion and garlic cloves. Cook rice according to instructions on package.

Combine garlic, onion, cooked rice, beef, turkey, and oil in frying pan. Cook on medium-high heat until beef is no longer pink. Stir occasionally. Add in diced tomatoes, green chiles, chicken broth, tomato sauce, oregano, salt, coriander, and pepper. Bring to boil while stirring frequently. Reduce heat to low and cook uncovered for 15 to 20 minutes. Stir occasionally.

Meanwhile back at chopping board, cut the tops off 2 green peppers, 2 yellow bell peppers, and 2 red bell peppers. Scoop out seeds and white soft part of peppers. (Get rid of these seeds and all with your sonic obliterator.) Put as many bell-pepper halves in a microwave-safe baking dish. (You might need more than one such dish.) Add water to baking dish until water is level with tops of bell peppers. Fill the insides of the bell-pepper halves with water as well. Microwave for about 8 minutes or until bell-peppers are crisp-tender.

Remove peppers from baking dish and drain the water from them. Put equal amounts of meat mixture into and on top of each pepper half.

If desired, chop remaining green bell pepper into small strips for garnishing the filled bell peppers.

TIDBITS

1) Christopher Columbus brought cattle with him on his epic voyage of discovery in 1492. Cuba probably had cattle by 1493.

2) However, Hernando Cortez was the first to bring cattle to North America in 1519.

3) So, Cuba had a twenty-six year head start over North America in the race to develop the first hamburger.

4) The hamburger patty was developed in the German town of Hamburg in the early 1800s. The culinary world was indeed standing on a mountain gazing into the promised land of the hamburger.

5) German immigrants brought the hamburger patty to America. American can-do spirit applied itself and the first complete was first served at Delmonico’s in New York in 1826 or 1834 or perhaps even 1871 in San Francisco, depending on which historical research you trust. Culinary greatness had been achieved.

6) Oh sure, America has done bad things as well. Slavery, fill-in-the bubble tests, and long lines at the DMV come to mind.

7) Cuba has had its problems as well with slavery and dictatorship and although it didn’t discover the hamburger it can hold its culinary head high with its Cuban sandwich and this recipe’s dish, the Cuban stuffed peppers.

– Chef Paul

4novels

My cookbook, Eat Me: 169 Fun Recipes From All Over the World,  and novels are available in paperpack or Kindle on amazon.com

As an e-book on Nook

or on my website-where you can get a signed copy at: www.lordsoffun.com

Categories: cuisine, history, humor, international | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

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